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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299611">Explosives + Explosive Tempers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies'>AppalachianApologies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Schrödinger's Sandbox [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MacGyver (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Friendship, Gen, Idiots that become friends, Light Angst, Sandbox fic, There's a few random army people, They're still getting to know each other, also mac's a lil shit but that's okay because he's endearing like a puppy, because it's a sandbox fic! wahoo!, but otherwise it's just the two of them (we can make it if we try), jack begrudgingly cares about mac, kind of, kinda pre-friendship actually</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:14:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A closer look at Mac and Jack's reactions when they first met each other in Afghanistan, all topped off with some nice angst and a budding friendship.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Schrödinger's Sandbox [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2157210</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Explosives + Explosive Tempers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! Hi! This is my first fic in the MacGyver fandom, and I'm extremely excited to share it with you all! At the moment, I have an idea for a series of sandbox fics, and the muse hasn't left my head yet, so hopefully there will be more of these to come, but for now, I won't make it a series :D</p><p>A couple few things that I had to change because of "plot" (let's be honest there's barely a plot in here), 1. In here, Mac's the first tech that he's overwatch for since coming back to the army<br/>2. Mac is twenty<br/>3. Jack still has random connections in the army, as well as a few people who know about the stint with the Deltas and the CIA (which will be important if I actually continue this series lol)<br/>4. Also I added in an allusion to James controlling Mac's life so that's always fun ahaha (satire)</p><p>Anyway at this point I'm just rambling, so please enjoy! :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>If there was one thing Jack Dalton was sure of, it’s that he was absolutely done with Intelligence Agencies. At the time, it seemed like the next logical step after the Deltas all went their separate ways, but honestly, Jack would be okay with forgetting the past five years of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After working in the CIA for nearly half a decade, Jack’s learned a few things. The most important thing though? The only thing worse than getting shot at by terrorists is sitting in a room full of bureaucrats. And anyone who thinks that he’s overreacting is wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bureaucrats are painful at best, and agonising, head-bashing-worthy at worst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So yeah. Jack’s done with Intelligence Agencies. Never again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried the whole thing where he went back home. Saw his mama and his plethora of nieces and nephews. Talked with his sisters and old neighbors. Jack tried to stick with it, he really did. But after a month of working at the ranch, something wasn’t working.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t care much whether it’s from undiagnosed PTSD or just being an honest to God adrenaline junkie, but Jack quickly learns that he can’t stay at home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack won’t work Deltas without his team, and there’s no way in hell he’s going back to the CIA, which only leaves a couple of options. And first on the list?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back to the army.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it must be fate, because not a day later does Jack get a call from an old “friend” from the CIA. Asking if he was looking for work in the sandbox as some bomb nerd’s overwatch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s always had a taste for danger. It’s a no-brainer when he agrees without a second thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he kisses his mama goodbye on the cheek, and flies back to the place he hasn’t seen in years. When he steps out into the sun, he can almost pretend that nothing’s changed at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s not trying to be trouble, he really isn’t. Despite what his past two overwatches have claimed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just that he works a little differently than other specialists. Mac has his own way to diagnose a bomb, pick out its insides, and disarm it. Even though Mac’s yet to fail, it still puts his overwatches on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if they don’t trust him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he loathes to admit it to even himself, it makes his stomach twist. He would’ve thought by now he’d have people that trust him. But no, instead the small circle has stayed the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bozer, Frankie, Charlie, and-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Pena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pena’s supposed to be in Mac’s circle of trust, but he isn’t, because he’s gone. Dead. Replaced with a wooden box and an American flag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s gut churns, nausea rising. In turn, it just makes him more frustrated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s an adult. An adult in the military, for God’s sake. He can’t be breaking down every time he thinks about someone. James would hate him if he knew about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the unwanted thoughts, Mac focuses his attention on a socket wrench, fiddling with the ends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wrench itself doesn’t need to be fixed, but better a tool than his cuticles to pick at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Specialist MacGyver!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jerking his head up, nearly dropping the wrench on his toes, Mac looks up to find one of his superiors, looking as pissed off as usual. “Sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to explain to me why your new overwatch refuses to be your partner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling his stomach drop, Mac forces his voice to stay steady. “I don’t know. Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a bit of a huff from the older man, before he just shakes his head in disappointment. It’s a familiar action. “You bein’ a pain in the ass, specialist?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No sir,” Mac shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. You sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few seconds of his superior squinting at him, he finally nods. “You’re getting a new overwatch. You’re lucky you're useful, kid. Otherwise nobody would’ve given you this many chances.” When Mac doesn’t immediately respond, he barks out, “‘You listening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes sir. I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” He huffs, before turning on his heel and leaving the bunks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac isn’t sure how much time has passed, but the next time he looks up the place is crawling with other men. Crowded places have never put Mac on edge, per say, but they certainly don’t stem a sense of safety either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rambunctious, adrenaline fueled men in a small tent has always been a recipe for disaster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring the rough housing around him, Mac snatches a stray bolt carrier off the floor, abandoning the wrench. He doesn’t like guns, but the mechanisms are a hell of a lot more fun than a solid piece of metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something must be in the air today though, because a second later the bolt carrier is snatched from his hands, and a fist meets his chin. It’s the final tipping point for Mac, not bothering to even attempt to calm down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s done with this shit show of a day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course it’s just his luck that the other man doesn’t seem to be letting down either. People are ridiculously protective of their stuff. Then again, if anyone had his knife, Mac wouldn’t hesitate to punch them either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obnoxious as always, all of his bunk mates gather around, cheering on the sudden boxing match. It makes Mac even angrier. At some point he feels his bottom teeth cut into the inside of his lip, but Mac doesn’t have enough time nor energy to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other soldier swings him around like a ragdoll, but Mac just uses it to his advantage. By using the other man’s strength, Mac can turn the inertia they generate into enough power to get the upper hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least that’s the idea until “Attention!” is called and all of the other bunk mates are suddenly standing tight, all joy and entertainment left from their faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On your feet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Internally, Mac groans, pushing himself off the floor before he can send another nasty look to the other soldier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both you idiots. Get up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evidently, he wasn’t fast enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now standing at attention, his superior officer demands, “What the hell is going on in here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Mac can even begin to snap, the other soldier speaks first. “Sir, I caught this boot messing with my gear, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scowling at the insult, Mac counters, “Sir, I wasn’t messing with anything.” It might be a lie, but that’s not important. “Someone knocked his bolt carrier off of his bunk,” Okay that one’s definitely the truth. “I picked it up, noticed it was lacking forward assist, wanted to fabricate a sprint to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘You trained on that rifle, son?” The commanding officer interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite knowing that whatever answer he chooses will be wrong, Mac shakes his head. “No, sir. No, I’m not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obviously seeing his opening, the other soldier looks up, “Excuse me, sir. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am </span>
  </em>
  <span>trained on that rifle,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, Mac wants to punch him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I can assure you that I forward assist my own bolt carrier just fine. Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, because the claim clearly isn’t true. If it was, then they wouldn’t have gotten in this altercation in the first damned place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oblivious to Mac, the older man continues, “Even if I didn’t- even if there was a problem, which there was not, I don’t see how he’s gonna do anything about it. He’s no sniper. Sir!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Mac really does roll his eyes. “Don’t need to be a sniper to understand basic engineering,” Mac mutters, forgoing the formal ‘sirs’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basic </span>
  <em>
    <span>what?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac just grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, before he can formulate a response, Officer Martinez barks out, “Shut up. Both of you. If it were up to me, I’d ship you both out,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Mac hates this hell hole of a desert with a passion, the threat still makes his heart jump a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make you someone else’s problem. But orders are orders. Sergeant Jack Dalton,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that’s the person who’s made Mac’s day even worse. He has an aggressively bland name. Like flour. Although then again, all names are bland compared to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meet specialist Angus MacGyver. Your new EOD tech.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh hell no. Hell. No. Mac can’t help a grimace from escaping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite their obvious disbelief, or perhaps in spite of it, Martinez turns to Mac and continues, “Dalton’s your new overwatch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be serious,” Dalton complains, and Mac can’t help but agree. At least they both share the same sentiment about something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patience wearing thin, Martinez bites, “Find a way to work together. Or I’ll find a way to get rid of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a beat, Dalton answers, “Yes, sir,” And Mac has no other choice then to follow suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other soldiers scurry away as fast as Martinez, not for privacy, but because they don’t want to be caught in another bunk fight. It can’t be good for anyone’s records.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Mac can feel himself begin to cool down, Dalton opens his mouth again. “‘Angus MacGyver’? What kind of name is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course he goes straight for his name. Not the fact that he could’ve fixed his bolt carrier in a minute, and not the fact that he was able to pin Dalton, even being only three quarters of his size. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, Dalton goes right to the name. Bullies never change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a new burger at Carl’s Jr., don’t it, boys?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t even being creative at this point. But Mac just slides into the curve, huffing along with the rest of the men. “Pretty embarrassing,” Mac starts, “A guy named after a hamburger just pinned your ass in front of your buddies, though, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah man, you didn’t pin anybody,” Dalton quickly counters. “I was about to break your skinny little arm, MacGyver.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac winces at the way that Dalton says his name. Just as he suspected, it’s with the same tone of voice as Donnie. Snarl and all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ve heard people talk about you. You’re supposed to be some bomb wonder kid, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all honesty, Mac doesn’t know where Dalton’s heard such a thing. Rumors easily pass through the army, but he doesn’t think that Dalton’s been here long enough to catch them.. “I think you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>wunderkind,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Mac corrects with a smirk, “But no, I wouldn’t say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dalton just scoffs. “Considering your last training officer just died on your watch, I don’t think I’d say that either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clenching his jaw, Mac forces himself to not sock the man in the jaw. Again. He doesn’t have a right to talk about Pena. He’ll never have the right to talk about that man. “You know, I’ve heard about you too, Dalton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kind of. “Yeah. Mostly that you’re an opinionated, loud mouth knuckle-dragger,” Wow, his ninth grade English teacher would be proud of these synonyms, “Who’s only stuck with me ‘cause I’m the most junior EOD tech, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nobody’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> gonna work with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, thanks to this ‘opinionated, loud mouth knuckle-dragger,’ every bomb nerd that I’ve ever protected has made it home to his loved ones, so I must be doing something right, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angus.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If only Mac had loved ones to go home to. But that raises another question: how many EOD techs has Dalton had? Mac certainly hadn’t heard his name around before a few days ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dropping his voice, Dalton continues, “Let me tell you something, I got sixty-four days left until I ship back home,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, good for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixty. Four. And nothin’, I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothin,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> especially not some scrawny, blond hair, know-it-all,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looks like Jack’s English teacher would also be proud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is gonna keep me from seein’ Texas again. You hear me, slick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What is this, the eighties? Slick? Really? Well, two can play that game. “Believe me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>slick,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I can’t wait to put you on that plane myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, I think we’re on the same page.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And since we’re gonna be working together, I think it’s only fair I lay some ground rules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course he thinks he has the right to lay rules on Mac. Not his dad, not his grandfather, not even the army has been able to contain Mac with rules. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rule number one: We don’t ever. Ever,” He enunciates with a smack, “Touch Jack Dalton’s stuff again. You understand me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac understands him, loud and clear. “Rule number two:” He chimes in, “We don’t ever, ever,” Mac taunts, mimicking the same slap, “Refer to ourselves in the third person. Who does that?” Seriously. Who actually, unironically does that? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever man,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, like you said, sixty-four more days. Let’s just get through that, and we don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>have to see each other again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine with me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac turns around before he stops being able to control himself from not punching the bastard. He’s just like all of the other bullies. Really, he should’ve been expecting it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sneaking a glance to Dalton, Mac shakes his head to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixty-four days. Just sixty-four days. He can handle that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, son of a bitch,” Dalton curses from a few feet away, tossing something plasticy on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other hand, maybe Mac can’t handle sixty-four days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They assigned him a goddamn kid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack has to babysit a fucking kid. A child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t even legally drink. Hell, the kid can barely vote, and based on the way he walks, he may as well be a new born foal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he has a fucking shit show of a name. Who the hell names their kid Angus? As if MacGyver wasn’t awkward enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Jack tears off the top, and only, blanket on his bunch, straightening and tucking in the edges. The familiar pattern of keeping bunks clean is soothing, no matter the environment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe enlisting again wasn’t the brightest idea. Maybe he should’ve thought about it for more than three seconds, and maybe, just maybe, Jack made a mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Probably not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack frowns at the kid, fingers fumbling, and then dropping, a flashlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, it was probably a mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst part is, Jack enjoys being overwatch. He knows that the smartest men in the army are the EOD techs, and someone needs to keep track of them, especially when they’re all wrapped up in wires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And from the rumor’s he’s heard, this MacGyver kid often finds himself wrapped up. Sometimes literally. According to his old buddies, Haworth and Taylor, the kid’s a hair away from suicidal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jack has to be the one to babysit him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Opening his jaw, Jack can’t help but snort to himself. At least the kid packs a punch. Like a puppy that one wouldn’t expect to be that powerful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dalton!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a single head nod, Jack greets, “Hey. What’s up, man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Colonel Wright wants to talk with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He say why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” The young soldier, Samuels, shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stretching his neck, Jack stands up, happy to leave the bunk. So far it hasn’t exactly harbored good memories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he reaches the Colonel, Jack’s frowning. He knows that Wright had some part of his reenlistment, but he isn’t sure exactly which. “Sir,” He greets, falling into the military precision ingrained in his soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Motioning to the seat, Wright gives a short laugh before replying, “We both know that I should be the one ‘sir’ing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” Jack shakes his head. “I’m just back as overwatch. Sir,” He adds with a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snorting, Wright fondly shakes his head. “Dalton,” He claps the man’s shoulder. “With all due respect, why the hell are you back here? You were Deltas, hell, you could’ve been running this place by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, in my nightmares. You know how I feel about climbing up the chain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet you always want to be in charge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What can I say?” Jack raising his hands, “It must be my charming attitude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After another snort, Wright places both of his hands back down on his desk. “Seriously man, why are you back? ‘You on a mission of some sort? I heard you got picked up by some pretty serious folks after your discharge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither confirming nor denying that last statement, Jack simply answers, “This ain’t a mission, other than to keep my bomb nerd alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MacGyver?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Making a face, Jack nods, “Yep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid’s a genius,” Wright begins, leaning back in his chair, “I’m talking, genuine, bona fide genius. But there’s something with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” If at all possible, Jack would much rather learn the… quirks of his new bomb nerd before they get in the field. To be fair, he’s already learned that the kid has a bit of an explosive temper. And touches shit without asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As helpful as ever, Wright just shrugs. “Dunno how to explain it. You’ll get it though. There’s just something that’s different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Jack sighs. “Can’t wait.” The two of them stay silent for a few moments before Jack speaks up again, “Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” Wright admits. “Just wanted to see Jack Dalton in the flesh again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? How is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Wright mutters, “You really haven’t changed, have you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” Jack grins. “I’ll see you around. Sir,” He adds with a grin, despite the fact that both of them know that Jack should be outranking him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one last laugh, Jack heads out of the tent, straight to the mess hall. The food certainly hasn’t changed since the last time he was in the ‘box. All salt, no flavor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, it’s comforting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he gets back to the bunks, MacGyver, along with a couple of the other soldiers are already holed up, boots haphazardly shoved underneath beds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first glance, it looks like MacGyver’s asleep, but once Jack gets closer he can clearly see his fingers moving. With a frown, Jack realizes that he hasn’t seen the kid’s fingers sitting still since they were rudely introduced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That could be what Wright’s talking about. But then again, a kid with ADHD isn’t exactly unheard of in the army, and Wright knows that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although he can’t quite tell what’s in the kid’s clutches, it reflects off the never ending moving lights from outside the tent. Probably metal of some sort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack clenches his fist. If the burger kid has got his grubby little fingers on another one of his guns…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>However at another glance, Jack realizes that it’s far too small to be part of his firing mechanisms. At least, it better be, otherwise Jack’s gonna be raising hell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MacGyver looks down from his bunk, finding Jack’s eyes. Neither one of them say anything, and half a second later, both of them have already looked away. Kicking off his own boots, Jack sighs to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is gonna be a long two months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac sleeps fitfully. It’s been years, probably decades, since Mac hasn’t slept terribly, so it’s not a concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even better, it’s not like anyone around him is going to judge him for it. It’d probably be more strange if he wasn’t sleeping badly. Everyone in the desert has their own demons, and Mac figured that out right in the beginning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only difference is that most of the men’s demons come </span>
  <em>
    <span>from </span>
  </em>
  <span>the desert, unlike Mac, who </span>
  <span>brought </span>
  <span>his demons from sunny California. Of course, that’s not to say that Mac hasn’t met any new demons since he’s arrived in the Middle East.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a nice cacophonous mix of childhood and war trauma. It’s quite a lovely time inside of Mac’s brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning on his right side, again, Mac lets out a huff. His sleep is even worse than usual tonight. It feels like the sheets are made out of rusty nails, and the pillow is no more than a plank of wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all actuality, Mac knows he isn’t too far off from the real materials. The last time he was comfortable sleeping would definitely have to be back in the MIT dorm rooms. That being said, Mac wouldn’t go back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s doing something useful here. He’s saving people, changing lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, that’s what he tells himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without law from his own brain, Mac’s fingers snake out from the side of the blanket, fingers latching onto the steel frame of the bunk. The metal isn’t taken care of, and it’s full of bumps and ridges. The only positive of the desert is that it’s nearly impossible for metals to fall apart from humidity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keeping his eyes firmly closed, Mac thinks of all of the different ways he could repurpose these materials. He thinks about how with a small motor he could create hundreds of small mechanisms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From a device to detect certain metals to an easier way to carry canteens, Mac knows that the bunk he sleeps on could be a hundred, no, a thousand different things. It’s how he thinks of humans too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone seems to think that they only have one purpose in life, just one thing that they decide when they’re fourteen. It’s not true though. Humans are incredible, and even more pliable than a material with weak tensile strength.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are so many different things that a person can do in their life, yet no one seems to realize that. They all decide on a single event, a single job to focus on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, maybe that’s exactly what Mac’s doing right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers slow to a standstill, and a second later Mac is asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Waking up in the desert is distinctly different than waking up anywhere else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although no one says anything about it, there’s something in the air. Appreciation of life. That’s probably the closest that Mac could get to explaining the feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gnawing on a protein bar that seems to be as rough as a brick, Mac watches as everyone else gets ready. Pulling on t-shirts and pants, lacing boots up once, twice, three times, making faces at TAC vests. Mac’s the only one that doesn’t religiously check a weapon in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an inconspicuous look to Dalton, Mac can see the older man doing the same thing. They all see their weapon as nothing more but a means to end a life. They’ll check the scope, barrel, firing mechanism, they’ll check it all, but nobody realizes what else a gun could do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac hates them. He knows it’s ironic that he voluntarily went to the desert to be surrounded by guns, but Mac hates them with a passion. And not for the reason that everyone suspects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that all of his bunk mates see the California kid who doesn’t like loud noises or guns, but it’s not all true. For one, when he’s the one making the loud noises, he definitely enjoys it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Automatic weapons are an incredible feat of engineering. Mac loves the engineering side of the guns his soldiers carry. He just hates the fact that they’ll only be used for one thing: taking lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second later, Mac is pushed out of his thoughts when a hand waves in front of his eyes. He makes a face when the edge of his bunk is kicked by a boot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Earth to Carl's Jr. ‘You in there, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting on his best pissed off face, Mac glares at Dalton. “‘Carl’s Jr.? Really? That’s the best you could do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without missing a beat, Dalton questions, “You prefer ‘Micky Dees’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he gets in response are rolling eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Up and at ‘em,” Dalton announces, smacking the side of the metal frame. “Sixty three more days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixty three more days. Sixty three more days, and Mac already feels his blood boil. After lacing his own boots, Mac stands up and gives him a pained smile. “Can’t wait. Where’re we heading?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“North,” Dalton answers, nodding his head to the appropriate direction. “We got the patented ‘suspicious activity.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So they’re sending in us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a half hearted shrug, Dalton points out, “No obvious hostiles. No more than usual, I guess. They just need a bomb nerd.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac gives a glare at the nickname, patting his side pocket to quadruple check that he has his swiss army knife. “When are we heading out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soon as you get your skinny ass into the truck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something tells Mac that Colonel Martinez wouldn’t appreciate it if he punched his new overwatch again. “Let’s go,” He sighs, grabbing his helmet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ride North is more than awkward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Awkward was the time that he and Frankie’s hands brushed when they both grabbed for the same beaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Awkward was when Bozer’s mom questioned which one of them broke the lamp, and both of them took the blame at the same exact time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This car ride is a thousand times worse than awkward. It’s almost intangible, and it feels like the air has thickened with tension.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Dalton drives, Mac busies himself with his knife, fiddling with all of the components, sweeping of invisible dust from the hinges. Every so often he sneaks glances out of the side of his vision, both toward the desert and Dalton. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally arrive, Mac looks around, turning a full 360 before frowning. Dalton’s also looking around, but Mac knows that they’re looking for different things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting the bottom of his lip, he ends up stalking over to a set of wooden panels, warning signs going off in his mind. Just like Pena said, the best way to detect a bomb is his gut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it, Lassie?” Dalton drawls, accent coming out thick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Choosing to ignore the name, Mac answers, “Think I got something,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bomb?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else would it be?” He sarcastically bites back, before carefully peeling away one of the panels. “Yep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a whistle, Dalton questions, “Can you disarm it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno yet,” Mac truthfully answers. “Need a better look at it first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jerking his head toward the device, Jack nods, “Alright. Get to it, I’ll keep a lookout. And kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking up from his crouched position, Mac questions, “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got sixty three more days. I don’t wanna go kaboom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t if I can help it,” Mac mumbles, turning his attention back to the IED.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nothing fancy, not that he can tell. Plastic explosives, pressure triggered. No timer means that Mac can take his time, but it also means that even the slightest bit of pressure will detonate it. He can handle it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a quick deep breath, Mac pulls out his knife, carefully checking each of the wires.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beside him, Mac can hear Dalton’s feet pad around, boots making crunching noises every time it hits a stray piece of debris. It doesn’t necessarily bother him, but it is different from the last overwatch he had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’re you staying this close?” He finally questions, unable to hold in his curiosity for any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without missing a beat, Dalton answers, “No good nests around. My job’s to protect you, and if I can’t do it from high up, you bet your ass that I’ll be down here with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if it detonates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You plannin’ on blowing us up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then it shouldn’t be a problem,” Dalton muses. “How much longer, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking dirt out of his eyes, Mac answers, “I’ve just started.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he gets in response is a noncommittal noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one last glance up, Mac gets to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack wouldn’t say that he was uncomfortable, per say, but he’s definitely felt more confidence when watching other EOD techs. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the hamburger kid, it’s just that he’s not a hundred percent sure of the hamburger kid’s abilities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, so maybe he doesn’t trust him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s not all Jack’s fault. It’s literally a kid, out in the desert. He should be back home, going to shitty parties and making mistakes with alcohol and women. That’s certainly what he was doing when he was MacGyver’s age.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Really, Jack isn’t distrustful of the kid, so much as he just doesn’t feel right. It’s distinctly wrong to have a twenty year old in a war zone. That’s not to say that MacGyver’s the first boy that he’s seen, and he knows he won’t be the last, but it still puts Jack on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack knows that plenty of people can’t afford anything but going into the military, he knows that he himself basically fit into that category. But it’s a kid in front of him. A kid, with a bright red knife disarming an IED.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the only way he knows how to explain it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Glancing down at the kid, he shakes his head. MacGyver is practically sitting criss cross, mouth slightly open as he fiddles with… something, Jack isn’t really sure. He should be sitting in some college taking a test right now, not being a duck in a war zone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mutely, Jack wonders where the kid’s family is. Maybe his pop or mom was in the military, and he’s just following in their steps. Or maybe it’s something like Jack’s family, where he had to enlist in order to ensure that his siblings would have enough money for college. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever the case may be, Jack knows one thing for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how much he hates the scrawny bomb nerd, he’s sure as hell bringing him home. Punching MacGyver is one thing, but letting him die out in the desert, brought home in a wooden box? That’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the sixth time that minute, Jack scans around the area, keeping an eye on anyone who passes by, making sure that they’re not staring one too many times. It’s not uncommon for the locals to be curious, but if someone keeps watching, Jack knows that they’re usually looking for trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After thirty minutes, the kid huffs, making the first noise since he began, causing Jack to send him a look. Oblivious, the kid doesn’t even notice Jack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he has a problem with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he disarms the damned bomb, Jack doesn’t care if MacGyver ignores him. In fact, it might make the next sixty three days easier if both of them did just that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied with the perimeter for now, Jack takes a better look at the kid. He’s evidently ripped off the plastic zipper on the sleeve of his gear, and Jack isn’t exactly sure what to do with that information. Paranoid, he looks at his own sleeve, delighted to see that the small pouch is still intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d you do with your zipper, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost absentmindedly, MacGyver answers, “‘S not conductive, I needed it for…” He trails off, eyes squinting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing that the conversation isn’t going anywhere, Jack just shrugs and looks back to the area around them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s one hell of a bomb nerd, using parts of his vest to disarm something. It’s certainly not anything that Jack’s seen before. He’s got some old buddies in EOD, maybe he’ll ask them about it. Someone’s ought to know something more about this kid. Someone other than Wright, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the job, Jack’s never felt bored being overwatch. Instead he holds pride for keeping an eye out for the smartest damned guys in the army, keeping them safe, bringing them back home for their mamas. And as much as Jack wants to punch the kid again, he’s still gonna be bringing him back home to his mom as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s what he’s here for, and Jack’s damn proud of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally standing up, the kid rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “I got it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Disarmed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving Jack a look, MacGyver sarcastically questions, “What else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just makin’ sure, Carl’s Jr.” The kid looks like he wants to argue, but Jack’s radio cackles to life before the younger man can do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Idly answering the radio, Jack watches as the kid keeps looking around, eyes squinting at certain structures, fingers constantly moving along his SAK. Whatever he’s seeing, Jack’s not privy to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a minute later, Jack’s nodding to their utility vehicle. “‘You ready for another?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s not exactly sure what he was expecting, but seeing the kid grin definitely wasn’t it. And it looks like Jack’s not the only adrenaline junkie here, at least not based off of the kid’s response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell yeah,” He snorts, “Let’s do it.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you all enjoyed, and I also hope to see you sometime in the future! (also I don't know if anyone fits in this category but if you've read this and are also following Embers, I'll be updating that real soon fear not!)</p><p>If you'd like, I'd love to talk with you all on <a href="https://appalachianapologies.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> (AppalachianApologies)! I'm always so down to meet new people :D</p><p>I love you all very much, and I hope you all are doing okay. If you find yourself in a bad or scary situation, here are some hotlines (Please keep in mind that the written out numbers are US hotlines)</p><p>National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255<br/>National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673<br/>National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233</p><p>If you don't live in America and need someone to talk to, here's a list of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines">international hotlines.</a><br/>You are not alone, and I love you all &lt;3</p><p>Much love to all of you, and take care until tomorrow!! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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